


Complete

by el3anorrigby



Series: A Growing Addiction [6]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Confrontations, Light Angst, M/M, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:47:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5023531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And finally, Napoleon’s presented with the opportunity he has been hoping for, his prayers answered. A lull moment in between Illya’s missions. He’s in Rome and Illya finds himself cornered by Napoleon. </p><p> </p><p>The one where Napoleon confronts Illya and Illya finally admits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complete

Napoleon catalogs and quantifies his life through events he’d been through; missions, people he’d met, places he’d visited, achievements, disappointments, meaningless romantic flings. If he could make a list, it would be endless. Some sticks to his head like glue, burns through his soul, becomes one with his being. Some fly by too quick for him to hold onto, too fast for him to comprehend, forgotten in an instant just as it had happened. 

Meeting Illya Kuryakin, knowing and learning to understand the man, and subsequently falling in love, definitely falls under the former category. Illya reminds him of sun drenched, hot evenings like when they’d been in Istanbul, of awful late nights escaping from danger, jostling of bodies together in tight confined spaces like when they’d been in Rome. Illya reminds him that life is never how one would expect it to be, full of twists and turns, full of surprises. Being around Illya means Napoleon always carry a sense of unexpected, intoxicating thrill. It’s enthralling. 

And that brings them to where they are, at sunset one evening, on the balcony of Napoleon’s hotel room in Rome standing by the railing, where it had all started in the beginning. Napoleon is about to be enthralled by Illya once again. He had been released from the Naples hospital weeks before but they’d never gotten round to talking about what Illya had started. About that _kiss_. The call of duty had stripped Illya away from Napoleon before he had the chance to ask him again after where they'd left off and as days passed by, Illya had been too occupied with spy work while Napoleon had been busy recuperating from his wounds. And finally, Napoleon’s presented with the opportunity he has been hoping for, his prayers answered. A lull moment in between Illya’s missions. He’s in Rome and Illya finds himself cornered by Napoleon. 

“You still owe me an explanation, Peril. I’ve been patient enough, I think. And I don’t think it’s too much for me to ask you about it now.”

As he stands before him, Illya regards Napoleon carefully. He remembers that day months ago when they'd celebrated their first mission together, obliterating the Vinciguerras, burning that disk to their superiors' chagrin, only to find out that wouldn't be the last they'd see of each other. Somehow, that had seem a lifetime ago. And now, here they are again, standing on the same spot but things have changed dramatically since then.

Napoleon's stare feels like scrutiny, so Illya turns away and lays his palms flat on the balcony railing before gripping it hard. He leans his head down, looks at the cobblestone path a few stories below. For days while he’d been away, he’d thought of this moment with Napoleon, of _him_. He sucks in a shaky breath, wants to say, “Fuck it, Cowboy, I’ve fallen for you, fallen hard, can’t you see that? And if you can’t, how can I make you?” But of course those words can’t come out because it’s easier said than done and because it’s never easy with Napoleon. The time however has come for him to tell Napoleon the truth. 

“Illya, you’ll be leaving again tomorrow. I-I don’t know if I can wait any longer.”

Illya’s heart lurches at Napoleon’s words. He looks up and eyes his partner who had closed the gap between them. If Illya reaches out, his hand would be able to curl around Napoleon’s shoulder. No, he keeps his arms to his sides. It’s not the time for actual physical contact, not yet.

“Gaby’s mentioned things offhandedly to me but I need to hear it from you, Peril,” Napoleon speaks again. The pleading tone in his voice this time is clear, unmistakable. 

Illya gives a small quirk of his lips. Of course Gaby would talk, why shouldn’t she? She knows the truth. That night in Napoleon’s hospital room, she had read him like an open book, Illya had no chance.

“Cowboy,” Illya begins, tentative, his voice small. “I am not sure what chop shop girl has told you. I don’t know how much truth she has said.”

“Well, you know Gaby and I don’t think she’d lie to me, Peril.”

Illya averts his gaze from Napoleon’s blue eyes again, faces the orangey sky in front of him instead. Even then he could still feel Napoleon’s stare on him. “What did she say to you?”

“That you have feelings. For me,” Napoleon says, hesitates for a second then continues, "And not in the platonic sense.”

Illya gulps slightly. Of course it is the truth. The feelings he has for Napoleon are definitely not platonic feelings. He knows damn well he’s never felt this way about anyone before. It’s indescribable, really and so is Napoleon. It’s like although he’s so different from Illya, he still understands him perfectly well. It’s like Napoleon can always read his mind. Even if Gaby hadn’t told him, he probably would still have known. 

Setting his attention once again on Napoleon, Illya finally braves himself, reaches out and places trembling hands on the American’s shoulders. He pulls him closer so they are standing merely inches from each other. Napoleon’s calm and composure and confidence certainly counteracts Illya’s anger and tension and his tentativeness and lack of faith sometimes, and they just fit completely well together. And Illya knows it. This is why Illya wants him.

There are times when Illya imagines they’re both pressed up against a wall and he’s kissing Napoleon and it’s _so intense_ and he imagines Napoleon can feel what he’s feeling and that _this feels so good, this feels so right_ … There are times when he imagines this exact scenario, both of them standing face to face without any care in the world, just the two of them, wordless, just alone with their thoughts. 

“Gaby, she might be right. I do have feelings, Cowboy,” Illya breaks the silence with much difficulty. He’s looking down at his feet when he says this. A finger hooks his chin, brings his face up, levels his eyes almost with Napoleon’s.

“Illya? Why do you choose to do this, whatever this is, with me?”

Illya never expects that question from Napoleon but he never expects his answer to come out so easily from his mouth, flows easily like water. 

“Because it’s _you_ , Cowboy. _Because it’s you_. And no matter how frustrating you can be sometime, and you may not think this, but you’re a wonderful and good person and I’m the only one who can really see this, really see _you_.” 

It irritates Napoleon sometimes, Illya’s utter inability to answer simple questions properly and yet this time, the question might have been complicated to say the least, but his answer comes out effortlessly, hits Napoleon right at his heart. Napoleon realises he loves Illya because he’s honest and wholesome and because he puts his feelings into his words like they’re complex. Napoleon has always wished he himself could do that. He has always wished he could take down the walls surrounding himself and let in the only person who really cares. And now, it feels like he’s letting Illya do it. 

 Napoleon looks at the stretch of Illya’s neck, the expanse of smooth skin and idly wants to kiss him there, kiss the hollow below where jaw meets throat. He wants to feel and press his hands against his shoulders. It takes him a moment to realise that Illya is already one step ahead of him. Next thing he knows, he’s being pushed back against the railing, the cool metal steel hard on his back.

When Illya kisses him on the lips, Napoleon’s eyes fall shut, his mouth and hands warm against his. Napoleon barely breathes. “Where have this been all my life,” Napoleon thinks, wants to say, but Illya’s fingers on his hips, his mouth on his, his smell, his touch against him is weighing Napoleon down like his second conscience, like his anchor. This is Illya’s way of telling him how he feels. And Napoleon takes it all in. 

This moment, Napoleon will saviour for as long as he lives. It will burn in his memory. This feeling, an untouchable moment in his life. He doesn’t know how long he could hold on to Illya, he might lose him tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow but for now, he knows _this_. He knows this like something fundamental and basic and irreplaceable. He’s sure about this like he’s never been sure of anything else.

“I love you,” he finally hears Illya say and the moment those words are spoken, it’s earth shattering. His heart constricts with a different kind of pain. Delicious warmth spread through his body and he kisses Illya back with the same intensity of those words being said. It’s the edge of spring in Rome, and Napoleon realises he has been waiting for those words for god knows how long, perhaps ever since when they’d first met. 

And now, _this_ between them, _this_ , is just the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks you lovely readers for reading this series. It's been a blast to write it. :)


End file.
